


make them stay, make them stone

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15.03 coda, ALL THE ANGST, Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean Winchester Uses Actual Words, Dean has emotions other than anger, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Break Up, Spoilers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 08:56:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21195026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: Childhood dotted with bodies. Let them go, let them be ghosts. No, I said. Make them stay, make them stone.After Cas leaves, after his heart stops thundering in his chest like it’s trying to escape, after the bright raw pain of a fresh wound dulls into a lingering throb, Dean finally moves. He unfolds himself from the table, releases his grip on the chair. His knuckles ache with the sudden rush of blood and it’s only then that he realizes how tightly he was holding on.





	make them stay, make them stone

**Author's Note:**

> When I stop having feelings, I'll stop writing about this episode.  
There's also a Cas version of this fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21181697), but you don't need to have read that in order to read this.

_Childhood dotted with bodies. Let them go, let them be ghosts. No, I said. Make them stay, make them stone.--The Origin of the Marble Forest, Gregory Orr_

After Cas leaves, after his heart stops thundering in his chest like it’s trying to escape, after the bright raw pain of a fresh wound dulls into a lingering throb, Dean finally moves. He unfolds himself from the table, releases his grip on the chair. His knuckles ache with the sudden rush of blood and it’s only then that he realizes how tightly he was holding on.

Cas left.

The first chance that he had, the first time that he was freed from duty and the apocalypse, the first time that they were allowed to go off-script...and the fucker left. _I think it’s time for me to move on_, like he’d just been taking the angelic equivalent of a gap year. Like the past eleven years were just one Heavenly one-night stand. All of his _We Are_, all of his apologies, all of his _I love you, I’d rather be here, I’ll have to watch you murder the world, I could come with you_\--The taste of the lies lingers in the back of Dean’s mouth, like fake sugar and instant coffee, like ash and dust, and the coppery slick of blood.

He stumbles into the kitchen and opens the fridge. Most of the food in there has some level of mold on it, and some of it could be qualified as genuine science experiments. Dean’s stomach twists as he recognizes some of the ingredients. He’d been planning on making sweet and sour chicken--in the past few weeks, Jack had gotten a taste for Chinese food, but Sam always wrinkles his nose at takeout, and Cas always reminds him of the cholesterol in takeout, with the kind of delicacy that suggests that _You’re not 23 anymore Dean, perhaps you should watch what you put in your body_, and he’d also wanted to show off a little for Mom, with the same fervor as he had when he was a child, _Look at me, look what I can do. Look what I made_.

Look at him. Look what he did. Look what he made.

Dean shuts the door. Looks like his breakfast will be of the liquid variety.

\---

When Sam finally emerges from his room, a day later, Dean’s in the awkward state of drunkenness. He hasn’t quite shifted to a hangover yet, but he’s not fully intoxicated. He’s fuzzy, sluggish, and his mouth tastes like sandpaper.

He takes another pull from the bottle and watches Sam walk up to the table. He moves slow, like he’s nursing bruises and broken bones. He moves like he’s finally realized that he’s pushing the wrong side of forty. He moves like he’s ancient.

“Hey,” Sam says, in a voice that sounds like it’s been scraped against a cheese grater. He’s trying so hard to be normal that it’s painful to hear. Dean wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to bother, that he doesn’t care, but that would mean admitting that he has some kind of clue of what Sam’s going through and that...Nope. Not going there.

Sam blinks red-rimmed eyes slow and looks around the room. “Where’s Cas?”

He asks like Cas might have just stepped out for a moment, like maybe Cas is down in the basement doing whatever the fuck he does when Cas disappears into one of the bunker’s nooks. He asks it like Cas didn’t plant a blade right between his shoulder blades and twist. He asks it like Dean hadn’t hunted down one of the very few good things that this life ever gave him and strangled it until it gasped its last against his bloody palm.

“Don’t know,” Dean replies, taking another gulp. He should probably stop. He’s reached the point where the liquor doesn’t burn anymore. After that, it’s a short journey to blackouts where he’s liable to do damn near anything, and then unconsciousness, where he’ll pass out any damn where. Sam doesn’t look up to snuff to put him to bed, and Cas...He takes another quick pull.

Sam’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “You don’t...” He’s not at his full fighting weight so it takes his brain a second longer to put two and two together. “What happened?”

Dean yanks a shoulder up in a shrug that probably looks as painful as it feels. “He has free will Sammy. Guess what he wanted to do with it.”

“He wouldn’t...He wouldn’t just go. Not without...” Sam finally finishes the equation. He stares at Dean and though he doesn’t ask _What did you do_, he might as well have.

“It’s done,” is all Dean says, taking another pull from the bottle. Sam looks like he might say something else, but Dean cuts him off, sharp and brutal. “It’s done Sam.”

He takes another drink.

\---

He ends up being right--he passes out right there in the war room, head pillowed up against his arm. He wakes up sometime in the early hours of the morning in a puddle of his own drool, sweating whiskey, and with a crick in back that seems like it’s taken up permanent residence.

Dean forces himself to his feet, hissing as his spine revolts. It cracks and pops, and normally this is about the time that Cas would magically appear and swipe a hand over his elbow, over his forehead, over the back of his neck, and Dean would feel that honey-warm glow of grace filtering through his body--But Cas left.

Right.

Dean takes himself, and his aches and pains, and puts himself to bed.

\---

Sam is a full grown (too grown) man, but he still looks like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It’s in the way that his eyes shift, furtive and ashamed, and the way that his fingers fidget over the surface of his keyboard.

Dean is viewing the world today through a haze of approximately forty percent sobriety, so he’s less than delicate when he says, “You called him, didn’t you?”

Sam sniffs and doesn’t look at him, which is answer enough.

Dean’s fingers itch for a bottle. His brain screams for rest. His chest...

He doesn’t need to ask Sam what Cas said. It’s written in the downturn of Sam’s mouth, the permanent line furrowing between his brows. “I told you Sammy. He ain’t coming back.”

He heads back towards his room, but stops when he hears Sam’s small, determined voice. “Cas always comes back.”

Dean freezes. Something hot and ugly, something that’s been dormant since Cas left, rears its vicious head. He whirls on Sam, lips already curled back from his teeth. “Well, that was before all right? Back when he had Chuck’s hand up his ass telling him what to do. Now he’s a real boy and he’s...He’s...” Dean chokes on the words, feels his gag reflex push at the cold certainty of them.

Sam stares at him, with eyes that are puffy and bloodshot. Dean snarls because he can’t take it, not from Sam, not that mixture of pity and disgust-- “You really don’t know, do you?” Sam asks quietly.

_I know you’re a pain in the ass_ springs to Dean’s lips but he bites it back. He glares at Sam, head spinning, chest aching, rage and grief boiling in the pit of his belly until that’s all that he is. “What is there to know?” Dean finally says. “We finally figure out that we’re free and the first thing he does is--”

“Is that what you think? Or is that what you want to believe?”

“The fuck difference does it make?”

“Because if you’re right, then it doesn’t have to be your fault that he left.”

It’s only because Sam lost Rowena that Dean doesn’t slam his fist in his face. As it is, he feels an ugly surge of hatred and anger course through his veins, the kind of anger that he hasn’t felt since he had the Mark yanked off his arm. His knuckles throb with the need to bury themselves in something. His teeth itch with the need to rip, to shred--

“Fuck you,” Dean finally spits. He points a trembling finger at Sam, rage turning the edges of his vision red. “You...fuck you.”

He storms back to his room, but not without picking up a lamp and hurling it against the wall as he goes.

\---

He wakes up the next morning face down on his floor, which means that Sam didn't bother to check on him after he slammed the door to his room. Or maybe Sam did check on him and just decided to leave him.

Either way, he's piling mistake on top of mistake, hangover on top of hangover, and his body isn't going to hold up underneath this strain for much longer.

Fuck it.

Dean takes another drink.

\---

The next night, drunk and hazy, curled up in his cold bed, Dean flips through his contacts until he finds Cas' name. The contact picture pops up along with it--Cas, looking typically exasperated, but with an unsure tilt to his mouth, like he could smile if Dean said the right words to convince him. Dean's heart twists until he's breathless.

He pushes the call button, puts the phone up to his ear. Even if he gets voicemail. Even if that's all he gets, he can say the words heavy on his tongue--_I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I didn't think that you would leave, I didn't think...Please come back, please come home, please Cas._

The phone rings once, then a unfamiliar trilling sounds in his ear.

_We're sorry. The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected._

Dean hangs up. Calls again.

_We're sorry. The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected._

He calls again.

_We're sorry. The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected._

He throws his phone at the wall, buries his face into his pillow, and screams until his throat is raw.

\---

Sometime later, morning, afternoon, they all blend together in the amber haze, Dean calls again.

_We're sorry. The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected._

\---

He calls Claire. It's an awkward conversation.

"What do you mean have I seen Cas?" When she answered the phone, Claire sounded distracted, like she normally does, but Dean's question gathers all of her furious focus. "Is he ok?"

"Yeah, he's fine," Dean says, even though he has no way of knowing for sure. It might not be the apocalypse anymore, but Cas is still an angel with waning grace and most of the denizens of heaven and hell have a price out on his head. "I just wanted to know if he'd been in touch with you."

"Cas and I don't really talk," Claire says. A loud pop sounds next to the speaker, like she snapped her gum right in the receiver. "It's always a little awkward."

Dean can imagine. Talking to the creature wearing your dead father's face does tend to kill a lot of conversations before they can occur.

"Anyway, why are you asking me. He's your boyfriend, or whatever."

Heat floods through Dean's cheeks. "Or whatever," he says, in the tone of voice that always meant _Knock it off Sammy, that's enough._

"Yeah, sure. You know, it's 2019 now, not 1942, or whenever you were made. #lovewins. No one really cares."

"It's not that. It's...you know what, I don't have to explain myself to you."

"Hey." Claire's voice sharpens with concern. "Did you guys have a fight?"

Dean hadn't told her much about what Chuck did, just enough to keep her aware. He'd selfishly wanted to keep her as far away from Ground Zero as possible, and if he'd given her the full picture, then she would have shown up, guns blazing. He's already lost one kid. He doesn't need to add another one to the body list.

"We had a...He left. And I don't have a way of getting in touch with him, so I thought maybe he'd...Whatever. It's stupid."

Dean regrets asking Claire. He's regretting a hell of a lot of shit in his life.

"He'll come back. He always does."

"Not this time." Claire wasn't there. She didn't see the look in Cas' eyes, hear the finality in his voice. She hadn't seen the look on his face when Dean had spat out _Why does it always seem that something's you?_ Something had died right there between them, as surely as if Dean had plunged the knife into it himself.

"Look, I'm like, the last person who should be giving relationship advice, and you're old, which is gross, and he's wearing my dad, which is like...so wrong we're not even going to go there but--" Claire sighs. "Cas worships the ground that you walk on. You have to know that."

"Don't say that." It's a two-fold pain--One, because Dean knows it's not true and Two, because her saying that makes Cas sound...It makes him sound like what everyone accused him of. The pet angel. The lapdog. It makes Cas sound lesser. The implication sours in Dean's gut.

"Not in a weird way, but like...I'm pretty sure that there's not much that he wouldn't forgive, as long as you were the one who did it."

"Don't count on it." Claire plays badass and most of the time she plays it so well that Dean forgets that she's anything else, but sometimes, she's so achingly young that it hurts. She hasn't been in the world long enough to figure out that everyone, _everything_, has a breaking point. "Look, it was just an idea. If you hear anything from him, give a yell, all right?"

"Sure thing. You betcha." She's been spending too much time with Donna. "And Dean? Seriously. Cas loves you." An awkward silence follows. "You...you knew that right?"

"Thanks for helping out," Dean says, too quickly, before hanging up. His hand shakes as he puts the phone down.

_Cas loves you._

He'd known. Eleven years, it'd be hard not to.

But in the end, it hadn't mattered.

\---

Dean checks to make sure that Sam is the gym before he boots up the laptop. It's old, so it takes it a few, begrudging moments to whir to full life. Dean taps his fingers against the table and listens to the faint muffled sounds of Sam's fists hitting the punching bag in a solid rhythm.

Ever since Rowena, Sam disappears for hours at a time. Dean doesn't know where he's going, but he has a clue. A faint, herbal scent clings to Sam, like sage, hemlock, and rosemary. His fingers are smudged and cut and more often than not, his face is pale and drawn, like he's been draining himself too quickly.

At one point, Dean would have been furious--witchcraft underneath his roof? But anymore, he's just too tired to really care. If it brings Sam some kind of peace, who is he to say otherwise? It's not like Sam's summoning the forces of hell. Dean thinks that maybe, even if he was, he'd be hard-pressed to really care.

The laptop flares to life and Dean immediately forces the old internet browser to one of his favorite sites. He types in the information that he remembers from Cas' truck--Ford, 2017, Kansas plates. He tries to remember the exact license number, but he loses clarification halfway through. Cas hadn't had the truck long enough for Dean to get really familiar with it. Not like the Continental which dropped off the face of the earth when Metatron stole it.

His half-assed search lands him pay-dirt about halfway down the page. Silver Ford F-150, found abandoned on the side of the road. Dean's stomach drops as he dials the corresponding number. It takes a few rings, but someone picks up. "Larimer County Sheriff's Office, how can I direct your call?"

"Right. This is Agent Page from the Bureau. I need to ask about a truck that someone in your department picked up about a week ago."

"Ok, let me transfer you." There's the faint stir of interest that always comes when Dean drops a hint that he's from the F.B.I. as the line clicks on the opposite end.

After a few moments, a smooth voice answers. "This is Deputy Carlisle. You had a question about a truck?"

"Right." Dean puts authority and a tad bit of disinterest into his voice. "I'm just running down a few leads and this truck is on my list. I saw that you'd picked it up about a week ago?"

"Right. That truck." Deputy Carlisle's voice is smooth, like she reads audiobooks to make some money on the side. "Yeah, it's in our impound now. What did you want to know about it?"

"The report said that it was abandoned? No signs of life anywhere around it?" Deputy Carlisle hums in agreement. "No signs of a struggle? No...weird things around it? Symbols? No strange burn marks? No blood?"

"No." Now Deputy Carlisle has a hint of suspicion in her voice. "There was nothing weird about how the truck was found."

Even over the phone, Dean can tell that she's holding back. "But?" he prods gently.

"You said that you were pursuing an investigation?" When Dean agrees, she continues. "Well, whatever you're chasing down with this truck...You know what my guys found in the bed? Bunch of Satanic stuff. Guns, knives, a machete. Whoever this guy is...they're into some bad shit."

Dean murmurs his thanks and makes a promise to call if he has any additional leaves. He hangs up the phone with numb fingers.

It's Cas' truck all right. With an arsenal like that, it would be impossible to mistake. But where is Cas?

Dean knows Cas--he babies his cars almost as badly as Dean himself. The Continental in particular, had been a favorite. Dean would sometimes find Cas running his hand over her frame, giving the hood a soft pat before he walked away. He recognized the gestures as some that he himself had made at Baby. Seeing Cas imitate them...Dean had just laughed before he pulled Cas to wherever they were headed.

The truck tells Dean what he's already been telling everyone, what he knew, but hadn't realized--Cas has no intentions of ever coming back.

\--

The last GPS on Cas' phone puts him in the town of Billings, Montana. Dean calls around to every hotel, police station, and homeless shelter in the town before he strikes gold.

"Yeah, we had someone like that a few weeks ago," a bored receptionist tells him. "Stayed for a week. Paid in cash."

"He say where he was going?" It's a slim thread of hope, but a slim one is better than none.

"Nope." The receptionist hangs up. Dean listens to the dead air for three minutes before he puts the phone down.

\---

Sam finds him a few days later, staring at the GPS notification.

"Dean. Why don't you just go after him?"

Dean slams the laptop closed.

\---

_We're sorry. The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected._

\---

He and Sam go back to hunting. It's all they really know.

They're rusty--a simple salt and burn takes them twice the amount of time that it normally would, and Dean gets flung into a few headstones before Sam finally gets the flame to catch. Later, Dean dabs at his fat lip in the yellow light of the motel bathroom. He's getting too old for this. In hunter years, he's ancient.

But what else is there?

\---

He dreams sometimes, about Cas.

It depends. Sometimes Cas is there with him and Sam and they're working a case, regular as anything. Cas hangs close to him, near enough that Dean gets his particular scent--the sharp threat of an impending thunderstorm, fresh rain, and little hint of ocean. Cas' eyes are pools that he can fall into and in his dreams, Dean indulges. He lets Cas crowd close to him. He lets Cas heal him. Cas stays after the hunt's over and shares a beer. Their knees bump under the table.

Those are the good dreams.

There are the nightmares--the ones where he sees Lucifer plunging the blade into Cas' back. Light pours from Cas' mouth and the high pitched shriek of his grace mingles with Dean's hoarse shout. Cas' body hits the ground with a hollow thump. It sounds like the death of all Dean's hopes. Worse are the torn and shattered remnants of Cas' wings burned into the ground beside his body. Dean screams himself hoarse, pounds his fists into Cas' motionless body, watches the limp, empty flop of his limbs.

He watches Cas walk into the water, leaking black goo. He watches Cas swallow Purgatory. He leaves Cas in Purgatory. His fists turn Cas into a bloody pulp.

He stands across a table from Cas and tells him _Why does it seem like the something that goes wrong is always you?_

He wakes from those dreams shaking and shuddering, screams caught in his throat. He claws furrows in his sheets and his eyes burn with unshed tears. He wakes with the sour realization that for years, he's been hurting Cas. For years, Cas has been bleeding, and it's only now, in his absence, that Dean realizes that he's been holding the knife.

He dreams of Rexford.

It had been one night, _that_ one night. Cas had been hurt--a sprained wrist and a bloody line scratched through his hand, courtesy of yet another dick angel. But there had been something raw and vulnerable about him. It was his first time really dealing with Cas the human, opposed to Castiel the angel. He'd been smaller. Realer.

Dean had run into the office and found the clerk waiting for him with a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth. "I need a room. Single. For a week." He hadn't paid attention as the clerk had rattled off a number. He'd just handed him one of his brand new cards, one that wouldn't be flagged for another few months at least. More, if the only thing he used it for was to pay for this hotel room.

He'd seen the sleeping bag pushed into the corner of the storage room at the Gas 'N' Sip. He wasn't stupid.

"I need to go get a few things from the store," he said, ushering Cas into the room. "Take a shower and I'll be back in five."

He'd ran through the aisles, throwing supplies into his basket. Antiseptic, bandages, a brace, a bottle of his favorite liquor. That wrist had looked like nasty work. And all the while, the guilt had pressed down on his shoulders, heavy as a hand. _His fault._ If he hadn't thrown Cas out...Newly human, vulnerable Cas. He'd given him a few cards, $500 in cash, and a ride to the bus station.

Cas had been getting out of the shower when Dean returned to the room, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. His brain had short-circuited at the sight of all the skin in bared in front of him. Miles and miles of tan, lean Cas, and _want_ had burned through Dean's body. Cas sat down on the bed, towel pooling around his hips and thighs. God. Even now, he was beautiful.

He'd wanted Cas from almost the very start. With a cyclone in his eyes and a thunderstorm in his voice, how could Dean resist? But the want had softened through the years, tempered into something almost tender. Right about the time that Cas gobbled up the entirety of Purgatory, Dean was just realizing how deeply Cas had rooted himself in his chest. And now...Cas sat on the edge of the bed and held his wrist out. He hissed as Dean turned the delicate bones and ran his fingers over the fragile skin. Underneath that thin layer, Cas' life pumped away. Just a small slip, just one mistake...He could have lost Cas tonight. He almost did.

"It's not broken," Dean said finally. His voice sounded raw in the still, close air of the motel room. "But it is sprained. I'm going to have to put the brace on it and it's going to hurt."

Cas took a swallow from the bottle, then turned to Dean. "It's fine," he said. "I trust you."

The words twisted a verbal knife in Dean's chest, one that left him gasping. "I'm sorry," he apologized, unable to meet Cas' eyes. He bent low over Cas' wrist, fastening the velcro straps of the brace around Cas' wrist. Every gasp, every whimper, the low whine that slipped through Cas' clenched teeth--Dean hated himself. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, like he was the one who deserved some kind of comfort.

He finished the stitches, but didn't let go of Cas' hand. He cradled it in his palms, like something precious. Cas deserved so much more than this, than a dirty motel room, and dental floss stitches holding together his skin. "I'm sorry," Dean said, the word falling from his lips for the thousandth time.

"It's fine,' Cas said, large eyes blinking slowly. He was a little drunk, Dean realized with a gut-punch sensation. "Dean, it's fine."

"No it's not," Dean said, desperate and angry and everything in between. 'It's not fine Cas, it's--"

It was all about to fall out of him--the deal with Ezekiel, the truth about what was lurking in Sam's body, the reason that he'd tossed Cas out on his ass--But Cas stops it all with a thumb placed square in the middle of his bottom lip.

Dean's heart lurched forward before falling to his knees. He bit his tongue to stop it from flicking out against the pad of Cas' thumb. "Cas," Dean mumbled, terror pumping in his veins. "Cas, we, we can't..."

"Dean." Cas might be human, but his voice can still stop Dean in his tracks. "Dean, please."

Five years of wanting, of needing, of losing, and now Cas was across from him, bare underneath his towel, close enough to touch, close enough to _have_...

With a small, strangled noise, Dean pushed forward.

There were no fireworks. There never are for people like them. Instead, there are tongues and teeth, Cas' nose pushed into his cheek, while Cas' hands flitted over his body. There was Dean, panting and desperate, his hands trembling as he worked over Cas' body. There was Cas laid bare in front of him, chest heaving as Dean worked down his body.

He tried to learn as much of Cas as he could in those minutes. With the refrain of _just this once, just this once_ wailing in his head, he stroked down Cas' sides, learned the taste of his skin. He rubbed his cheek on the inside of Cas' thighs and felt the muscles tremble. He bit at the jut of Cas' hips and sucked a bruise into his inner thigh. Cas' hips shifted restlessly as small pants and cries fell from his lips.

Dean wanted him so badly that he thought his chest would crack wide open from the pain of it.

He took Castiel into his mouth, relishing the hot, heavy weight of him. Above him, Cas made the most delicious sounds, soft whimpers and muffled curses breathed into the back of his hand. Not good enough. If this was going to be the only time this happened, Dean wanted everything. Without taking his mouth off of Cas, he reached up to take his hands away from his mouth. He guided Cas' hands down to the back of his head and shivered as Cas' cupped the curve of his skull in his long fingers. His thumb drifted over Dean's cheek, where he felt the bulge of himself pressing against the inside of Dean's mouth.

When Cas came, he was a thing of beauty. His back curved in an impossible arch, the top of his head pressing against the mattress. His hands fluttered over the back of Dean's head as a harsh sob fell from his lips.

In his jeans Dean was painfully hard. His dick pressed against his zipper, straining for release, so when Cas gestured towards him with a weak, "Come here, please, come here," Dean was helpless.

He surged forward, his lips crashing down on Cas'. Cas licked into his mouth with purpose, like he was trying to chase the taste of himself out of Dean's mouth and that was just...That was the last straw.

Dean propped himself on one elbow as he fumbled with the fastenings of his jeans. Released from the confines of his jeans, his dick pushed forward, already wet from the pre-come beading at the tip. Underneath him, Castiel was flushed and panting, his dark hair mussed and spread over the pillow like a gift. "Come for me Dean," Cas said, his voice like gravel and whiskey. "I want to see it." _Just this once_ repeated in Dean's head as he came over Cas' stomach with a strangled sob.

_Just this once_ came with its own set of rules. It came with a slow slide out the door, with a series of awkward smiles and strained promises from people who had no intention of fulfilling them. _Just this once_ didn't settle in next to Cas on the mattress, didn't allow Cas to pull him closer. It didn't brush a kiss to the hollow of Cas' collarbone. But Dean did.

"I could come with you," Cas said, hours later. His fingers stalled over the back of Dean's neck before they rubbed nervously at the bump of Dean's spine. "To the bunker. I could come with you."

It was the closest he'd ever heard Cas get to begging. The longing in his voice was painfully obvious and Dean's chest cracked open. _Just this once_.

He pulled away. He pulled away from Cas' arms, told Cas that he couldn't come back. Told Cas that he didn't have a home. He pulled away and never could find his way back.

Dean woke from that dream hard enough to pound nails. It only took a few strokes of his hand before he was coming to the memory of Cas' face, his greedy fingers, the soft curve of his mouth as he came. Dean comes and after, wants to vomit.

\---

A month later, on a chupacabra hunt in Texas, Dean runs into Leo.

Leo is a weird, little dude. An Oklahoma native, he has some kind of weird healing power that Dean's never quite managed to decipher. He gets tossed around like a rag doll but never seems to feel the pain. Hours after having his forehead split open, the cut's all but vanished. Just a thin red line remains on his forehead.

Dean hung out with Leo quite a bit back in the day. It was when he'd just split from Dad, back when Sam was at Stanford, and Dean was twisting in the winds of freedom. He'd run into Leo on one of his first hunts, a vampire nest that turned out to be bigger than either one of them had originally thought. They'd worked well together, so after the nest was exterminated, they'd decided to stick together.

With the chupacabra dead, Sam excuses himself back to the motel, leaving Leo and Dean with the unenviable task of burning the body. Dean doesn't say anything as Sam leaves. He and Sam have been getting into fights more often than not these days, to the point where Sam ditching him almost comes as a relief. Leo watches, but doesn't comment as he stacks wood around the body and lights the fire. As the stench of burning chupacabra hits his nostrils, Leo turns to Dean. "So what about it Winchester?" he asks, in his country twang. "You up for a little fun?"

A shiver runs down Dean's spine as he remembers the kind of fun that he and Leo used to get up to. Leo must see where his thoughts go because he laughs and waggles his eyebrows. "Maybe later," he says teasingly. "But there's a bar in town that has a mechanical bull and karaoke night."

With those two things dangled in front of him, Dean can hardly say no. He follows Leo to the bar and drinks cheap beer while he laughs at the antics of people on the bull. He cheers on a few petite blondes who sit on the bull like they're afraid that it's going to actually come to life. They each last about fifteen seconds, but they look good while they're falling. After they stagger off the mats, there's no shortage of men rushing up to buy them drinks.

He takes his turn. Hunting has given him a superb sense of balance as well as thigh muscles that could crush a ghoul's head, so riding the bull doesn't strain him over much. He breaks the night's record for the bar and wins himself a free round of beer. He dismounts to a series of whoops and cheers and then Leo takes his place.

Dean is utilitarian while on the bull. He has a job to do and he does it. But Leo...Leo is a showman. He holds one hand in the air and whoops at the appropriate times. He appears to wobble and then right himself just in time. Then, as the bull starts to pitch forward, Leo shoves himself to his feet. He surfs on the bull, to the thundering cheers of the crowd. The bastard even winks at a gaggle of girls before he jumps lightly off.

He comes back to Dean, eyes sparkling and damp hair stuck to his forehead. He's vibrant, glowing, and the memories hit Dean so hard that it feels like a punch. For one moment, he wants nothing more than to reach forward and drag Leo forward by his hair, crash his mouth against his until he feels him gasp. But then--

_Why does it always seem like that something's you?_

Cas pressed against him on the couch as they watched _Tombstone_ and _Die Hard_. The weight of Cas' hand on his shoulder. The soft, throaty sound of his laugh. The sound of his footsteps as he left.

Dean gasps, reeling backward. The only thing that keeps him from crashing to the ground is Leo's hand around his elbow. "Jesus," he mutters. "The hell's wrong with you?"

What indeed.

"I need some air," Dean says. Without waiting for a reply he stumbles forward on wobbly legs, out of the stifling mugginess of the bar and into the cool Texas night. He gulps in a breath, but it's not enough. He's dizzy, undone. He's bleeding, has been for a while, and the only person who could heal him, Dean drove away.

"Dean? The hell happened back there?"

And Dean doesn't want to say. He tries to clamp down on the ugliness that's been seething inside of him for months, but it comes out, sour as vomit. In a dingy dirt parking lot that smells of manure and grease, he pours out everything--Jack and Mary, Cas knowing about Jack but keeping it quiet, the disaster of the ghosts. The demon in Jack's body and the loss of Rowena. The poison he spat at Cas. "And he left," Dean finishes. He's hollow, empty. He has been for a while. "He...he left."

Beside him, Leo pushes back his hair as he lets his breath out in a low whistle. "Jesus Winchester. When you step in it, you don't go by halves, do you?"

"Fuck you," Dean says, without heat.

"I mean it man." Leo shakes his head. "So what are you going to do?"

"What do you mean what am I going to do? Keep on. There's nothing to do."

"Bullshit." Leo doesn't beat around the bush, never has. "You're telling me that you were with this guy for eleven years and you don't have the first idea of where he'd go?"

"First of all, he's not a guy, he's..." Dean trails off. How to describe Cas to someone who never met him? Who never saw his innocent curiosity at something as simple as a pastry? Who never felt the whip crack of ozone as his grace filled the air? Who never saw him fight? Who never experienced the kind of devotion that...That...

"Oh Christ." Dean's stomach lurches. For a moment, he thinks he's going to vomit. He puts his head between his knees and breathes deep. That chases the nausea away, but it does nothing for the unhappy churning in his stomach. "Oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck."

He's in love with Cas.

He's in love with Cas, and he's sitting in a parking lot in Texas with chupacabra blood caked underneath his nails, and he has no idea where Cas could be. He's in love with Cas and he drove him away. He's in love with Cas and he took whatever ephemeral, shining possibility that existed between them and ripped it shreds. Worse still, while he was doing that, he took pleasure in it--every tiny flinch, every hooked barb, every slight. He shredded Castiel. He sent Cas into Hell without any guarantee he'd get him back.

"So what are you going to do?" Leo asks again.

"I need to find Cas," Dean says.

The second the words come out of his mouth, he' struck by the sense of rightness that floods through his body. It's the first breath of spring, washing through his body. It's cleansing, life-affirming. The seething pit in his belly ceases as warmth oozes back into his extremities.

It's the closest thing to Cas' grace he's felt in months.

Dean looks up at Leo. Impossibly, a smile spreads across his face.

"I'm going to find Cas," he repeats, and he savors the taste of those words.

\---

He tells Sam the next morning.

"I'm going to start looking for Cas."

Sam sets down his cup of cheap room coffee and looks at Dean for a long moment. "Is there a problem?"

"You mean something apocalypse worthy? No."

Sam nods. "So you want his help on a hunt?"

Dean has a feeling that he knows where this is going, but he'll play along for the moment. "No."

"So you think that someone's gunning for him."

God, Dean hopes not. Please, please no. "I hope not."

"So why are you going to find Cas?"

"Because." Dean licks at his lips. He has a feeling like he might throw up. He feels like if he tried, he would float up to the sun. "Because I'm in love with him and I want him back."

A small smile flirts with Sam's face. It's the first time that he's seen Sam smile, honestly smile, since Rowena.

"He might not want you back, you know."

Dean's considered that thought. He's thought about Cas moving on, Cas settling down somewhere else. Cas finding someone else. He knows now, how lucky anyone would be to even touch a hint of the stardust and mystery that makes up Cas. He had that in the palm of his hand and he threw it away, thoughtlessly, with a child's arrogant assumption that his toys would always be there later for him to play with. Dean's old enough to know that the things you throw away sometimes stay gone.

Still. "I have to try. If there's any chance at all...then I have to try. He deserves to know."

Cas deserves more than that. He deserves the world, but Dean can only give himself. It's a paltry prize, but he has to hope that it will be enough.

Sam gets up from the table. Dean tenses. It's an automatic reaction, one that he hates himself for, but he can't help it. Things really haven't been good between him and Sam lately.

When Sam wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders, Dean freezes for a second before he hugs back. Normally their hugs are short, violent affairs, more for reassurance than anything--_Are you alive? I'm alive. We're here, we're in one piece._ This hug lingers. It says what Dean still can't say: _I'm sorry. I'm sorry about Mom, I'm sorry about Jack. I'm sorry about Rowena. I wish we would have saved them. I'm sorry that I drove away the only real friend we ever had. I'm sorry._

"Good luck." Sam squeezes him tight enough that if he closes his eyes, Dean can forget everything that they've lost.

\---

It's one thing to say that he's going to find Cas. It's another to actually do it.

Dean starts in Colorado, at the town where Cas dumped his truck. He finds the truck, still in impound 'Pending Investigation'. A cheap suit and a flash of his badge get him into the impound where he examines the truck. He looks in the back and takes all of the weapons out. "Need these for evidence," he tells the wide-eyed tech who accompanied him. He slides into the driver's seat and searches underneath the mirrors, the glovebox, the console. Anything that Cas might have touched. He finds nothing. Other than the weapons in the back, the truck might have come straight from the dealership.

There's the faintest hint of Cas in the air inside the truck. If Dean closes his eyes and breathes deep, he can almost smell Cas. The spaces between his fingers itch with the need to clasp Cas' hand in his. He wants Cas beside him so badly, it's a tangible thing.

"All right. All right."

Slowly, he gets out of the truck.

\---

The stop at Billings, Montana is a similar bust. With those two towns, both of his leads are spent, leaving Dean at loose ends. Cas' phone was long since ditched, and the owner of the motel had complained that the occupant in question had ruined the damn garbage disposal by shoving a bunch of cut up credit cards down the sink. Upon hearing that, Dean's hope sank down to his knees. Without a phone, truck, or credit cards, Cas has made himself exceedingly hard to track.

He swallows his pride and calls the remaining hunters that he feels comfortable talking to. Claire still hasn't heard anything from Cas. The same with Jody and Donna. They all promise to call him if anything changes, but Dean doesn't hold out much hope.

\---

He drives to Pontiac, Illinois.

He finds the small clearing where it all began. The felled trees have long since been cleared away and in their place, a crop of new saplings reach towards the heaven. The crude cross has long since been lost to time, but if Dean tries, he can remember where it was. He kneels at the spot and looks up at the sky.

From the moment that they met, Cas saved him. Even when Heaven was supposedly calling the shots, Cas still gravitated towards Dean. The fourth time he saw Cas was when Cas admitted to doubt. It wasn't until later, when Dean finally understood how Heaven worked, that he realized what Cas had told him. The power that he'd given Dean by that one, simple admission.

Cas has always laid his own destruction firmly in Dean's palms, and instead of taking that responsibility seriously, Dean treated it like a trinket. He closed his fist and crushed the slender, gossamer threads of Castiel's trust and devotion.

"Where are you?" Dean asks, staring at the persistent patch of dead grass.

\---

He drives westward again.

On his way, he does a couple of jobs: one werewolf, a few salt and burns. Nothing really serious. He appreciates the distraction.

Sam calls several times. Each time, it gets harder to tell him that he still hasn't found anything.

Sam offers to do a locator spell, but Dean demurs. Somehow, he knows that it would be cheating if he brought in outside help. Castiel either needs to be found by his own experience or not at all. From the skepticism in Sam's voice when Dean tells him this, he can tell that his brother doesn't understand, but that's fine. Dean's always understood the rules that governed Cas' life better than his brother.

He keeps driving.

\---

He dreams, in the darkened motel room.

_It's warm in the room, warm enough that he only needs a sheet over his waist. The reason for that warmth he discovers quickly, as an arm tightens around his waist. Dean tries to squirm away, only to have the arm clamp down. "Stop moving," Cas grumbles. His words are muffled by virtue of his face being smashed against Dean's shoulder. _

_"I've got to piss," Dean murmurs. When Cas still doesn't budge, Dean resorts to dirty tricks. He tickles underneath Cas' elbow until Cas grunts unhappily and jerks away. _

_"You're awful," he mutters, shoving his face into the pillow. "Hope you get a bladder infection." _

_"You're so sweet in the mornings," Dean leers. Despite Cas' attitude, he still leans over and brushes a kiss against the soft hairs at his temple. A few silver hairs are nestled amongst the dark. Dean loves them. He loves everything about this man. _

_"Fuck off," Cas mutters, waving his hand at Dean. _

_It's tempting to turn that phrase into something suggestive, but Dean refrains. He really does have to pee. _

_Upon returning back from the bathroom, he slides back under the covers. Neither of them have any place to be today and outside is the kind of soggy, grey day that makes Dean just want to curl back up in bed. Preferably with his warm, loose husband next to him. His warm, loose husband, who must still be grumpy with him, seeing as he doesn't acquiesce to Dean's silent requests to get him to move. _

_"No," Cas says, stubbornly clinging to the opposite side of the bed. "You woke me up." _

_"I'm sorry," Dean murmurs, brushing his lips over the cut of Cas' jaw. Rough stubble scrapes against his lips, but Dean likes the drag, the way that his lips go tender and raw afterward. "You want me to show you how sorry I am?" His fingertips ghost over the sparse hairs at Cas' belly to dip underneath the waistband of his boxer-briefs._

_Cas grunts softly as Dean teases his dick to semi-hardness. "I thought the goal was to go back to sleep?" he asks. Though he's trying for unaffected, there's a definite breathiness in his voice that hints otherwise. _

_"Sleep later." Dean nips at Cas' bare shoulder. "This now." _

_He moves his fist in long strokes over Cas, the friction eased by the steady leak of precome from Cas' slit. He grins at Cas' soft pants and moans, the way that he tries but doesn't manage to stop his hips from rolling forward. "You're so gorgeous," Dean whispers against the shell of Cas' ear. "I'm so lucky to have you." A small, high noise escapes out of Cas' mouth. "I love you so much." _

_Cas comes with a soft cry, one hand reaching back to anchor himself on Dean's hip. "I love you," he pants as he comes down. "Dean, Dean, I love you so much"--_

Dean startles awake, hard and aching and desperately alone.

_Why does it seem like that something's always you?_

\---

Winter starts to descend upon the land and Dean keeps driving. He's going through towns at random now, always searching for dark-haired, blue-eyed men. He passes through Colorado on a fool's errand and finds nothing.

He's losing hope and running out of momentum. At the time, when he'd said it, it seemed so simple: Find Cas. He'd thought, foolishly, that he could maybe have it all.

Maybe this is one of those mistakes that he can't undo.

\---

The further north he drives, the colder the wind bites. The Impala struggles in this weather--she's sluggish to start and when she does, it's with a low, complaining groan. Her tires slip more than once on the slick roads and she's guzzling gas at an alarming rate.

He crosses the Idaho border and memories come back to him. _Cas, small and human, standing in front of an angel bent on his destruction. Cas, bare in the hotel room. Cas' blood spotting on the towel. Cas, laid out in front of him like his very own banquet. Cas, slumming at the Gas 'N' Sip_. __

It's with no small amount of surprise that Dean finds himself driving into Rexford, Idaho later that afternoon.

He finds his way to the Gas 'N' Sip by muscle memory. The sky is an aggressive steel grey, one that promises snow in the very near future. The Impala's engine whines in warning as he pulls into the parking lot. He fills up the tank, shivering as the wind whips through his jacket. Maybe he should look at getting a place to hunker down.

That's when he looks through the window and he sees him.

It's like a gut-punch. It's a thin, silver shard straight to his heart. It's hope and despair and grief--It's Castiel, in front of him for the first time in five months.

Dean thought he knew how much he'd missed Cas, but he didn't understand until that moment, how much he needed him.

He's in a stupor. He's unmade, useless. Thousands of monsters, ghosts, and demons, and no one's managed to weaken him the same way that Cas can, simply with his presence. Dean would burn the world if he thought that meant he could have Cas back.

Cas moves with the quiet certainty that Dean missed. Everything about him is so deliberate. There's never any wasted movement, never a moment's hesitation. Dean could lose hours watching him and he almost does. He forgets about the cold, forgets about his numb fingers and his tingling toes, and watches Cas through the window. He aches, with a desperate, wild pain.

The door jangles and Cas comes out. His hair is stuffed underneath a cap and he has a coat actually suited to the weather. Does he feel the cold or is he just blending in? In his hands, Cas carries a 20 lb bag of rock salt that he scatters over the parking lot. He moves with sure, steady motions. Dean's heart moves to his throat and he swallows around it.

He's not expecting Cas to freeze. His spine goes ramrod straight, in the warrior's posture that Dean knows so well. "You know what I am," Castiel warns the still lot. "Leave now before I lay you to waste."

Dean can't hold back any longer. He doesn't want to. Five months of longing, of anger, of despair, five months of living with the consequences of one of his worst mistakes, five months of knowing that he's the only reason that his life went to shambles--

"Cas," he says, and Castiel finally turns to look at him.

_ _\---_ _

He'd expected the anger.

It doesn't make it easier to bear.

"Turns out you're a tough guy to find," he says. He means it as a joke. He means it as a conversation starter. He wants to invite Castiel back into the rhythm and routine.

Castiel looks at him with hard eyes and says, "Obviously not hard enough."

The blow strikes deep into his vulnerable underbelly. Every fear he had comes true in that moment: Cas didn't want to be found. Cas has obviously moved on. Dean shoved him out of his life and, instead of mourning, Castiel picked himself up out of the dust and created a new life.

"You left your truck on the side of the road. Sam managed to get the GPS off of your phone but you must have ditched it or something."

He'd thought that Cas was dead. For a few hours, he'd managed to convince himself that Cas' body was lying in an unmarked, shallow grave.

"I broke it."

"That would explain why we couldn't track it."

Dean smiles at Cas like an offering. He wants to cross the span of the parking lot. He wants to touch Cas with his hands, make sure that he's real. He wants to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness. He wants, fiercely and uselessly, to go back to that moment five months ago and shove those poisonous words back into his throat until he chokes on them.

"Why are you here?"

Dean's heart shatters. He curls in on himself, vulnerable and defeated. "I just...can we talk? Please?"

Cas looks at him steadily. His face is an incomprehensible as it used to be, pure marble. Those smiles, his rare, throaty laugh, even the curled lip of his anger--those aren't for Dean. Not anymore.

"I have to work. My shift doesn't end for another three hours."

With that, Cas turns to back into the store. He leaves without a second thought, again, and Dean can't. He can't let Cas walk away from him again. Not when there's even the slimmest chance.

If Cas tells him to go, then Dean will go. He'll respect his wishes. But he won't give up. Not now, not when he's so close.

He asks why Cas spends his time in a dingy store in Idaho. Why he hasn't gone to someplace more exotic. "I understand this work," Cas tells him. After a moment's careful consideration, he adds, "I'm valued here."

The verbal knife lands squarely in Dean's chest. He's been stabbed before, but somehow, this hurts more.

"Cas." He's defeated, hopeless. He's thrown himself on the altar of Cas' forgiveness to find it lacking. "Cas, please."

Cas whirls on him, his eyes finally flashing in anger. "You think you can come here and upend my life? I beg you, for weeks, to talk to me and you won't, not until it's on your terms. It's always what you want." The honesty in Cas' voice burrows into Dean's heart.

For a moment, he thinks that Cas will tell him to leave. That Cas will throw him out. It's no more than Dean deserves.

He has no arguments to sway Cas. He has no reason why Cas shouldn't toss him out on his ass. "Please," is all he says.

And miracle of miracles, Cas says yes.

_ _\---_ _

The snow starts to fall an hour later. it comes differently here than in Kansas. In Kansas, snow falls gradually, like a gentle dusting of sugar. Here in Idaho, it falls in a solid, white sheet.

Not long after the roads disappear in the snow, Cas gets a call. Dean listens, without trying to. Jealousy bristles in him at the warmth in Cas' voice, the obvious care and concern. He remembers the woman who worked here six years ago--Nora? Cas had thought she was pretty then. Has she? Have they...?

It's not his business. He doesn't have any claim over Cas. Still, when it comes time to shut down the store and leave, and when Cas directs him to his truck, Dean can't stop the small glow of warmth in his chest.

He inches his hand across the seat. What he wants is to take Cas' hand in his, to entangle their fingers, to squeeze and feel Cas' hand squeeze back. He doesn't do that. He just nudges his knuckles against the solid line of Cas' thigh. It's so little compared to what he wants, but Cas never tells him to move, and Dean will take that as a victory.

_ _\---_ _

_ _"__You need a shower," Cas tells him when they get to his hotel room. He says it matter of factly, like the idea of being naked with Cas in the other room doesn't shatter something inside of Dean's brain.

He protests, but Cas, as always, is implacable once his mind is set on something. "You can change into this after you're done." He presses a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt into Dean's hands, and that...If he buries his nose in the clothes he can smell detergent and best of all, he can smell the rainwater and ocean scent of Cas. It's the thought of being wrapped up in Cas, more than the promise of warmth, that sends him to the showers.

He's thought about it before--of what it must have been like for Cas to descend into Hell, to fight through demons and fire, all for the sake of rescuing one man. Thousands of angels, Cas had said once, a faraway look in his eyes. Thousands of angels and yet, it was Castiel who had found him. It was Castiel who wrapped him in his grace and brought him back into the world, it was Cas who kept reminding him, throughout the years, of why they kept on fighting and struggling. Thousands of angels.

He's so lucky that it was Cas.

_ _\---_ _

Cas makes soup for dinner, straight from the can. It tastes slightly metallic, but Dean doesn't pay attention to that. He can't take his eyes off of Cas and he keeps on catching swift glimpses of Cas' eyes landing on his face.

After the meal is done, tightness returns to Cas' jaw and shoulders. He makes to wash the dishes, another way of keeping Dean at arm's length, and Dean...He can't. Cas can throw him out, Cas can scream at him, Cas can stab him, but the one thing that Dean won't survive is Cas ignoring him.

"Cas. Can we please talk?"

Cas looks at him, pleading. Dean understands. He wants to stay in this perfect world, the one where they can pretend that everything is fine, but they can't. "What is there to say?"

Dean holds Cas' wrist in his hands. Underneath his thumb, Cas' pulse thrums steadily. He wants to lower his lips to that pulse and kiss it. Thank it for doing its job so well.

"I'm sorry," Dean finally says, his voice cracking on the words. "Cas, I'm so sorry." He watches Cas' face crumple, feels his own heart falter at the sight. "You have to believe me."

"Why?" The word is small, thin.

"I..." How to explain the fact that he never learned how to handle emotions? How to explain the terror of love? How can he make Cas understand the complexity of his need, and the fire of his grief? "God, Cas, I was so...It was Chuck and Mom and Jack and...I knew that I was fucking up, I knew that you were hurting, but I couldn't...I saw that you were hurting but all I could think of was that I was hurting too and that it had to be someone's fault because otherwise it was my fault. I didn't...I didn't mean to hurt you."

If nothing else happens, Cas needs to know. Dean never wanted to hurt him, even though he did. He never should have let a day go by without telling Cas exactly how precious he was.

Cas' laugh is a small, bitter thing. "You told me that I was the reason for your problems. You said that I was dead to you."

And there it is. The accusation that Dean was dreading, the one that he can't escape or defend. The one that drove a knife through him and Cas. The one that ruined them. No one forced him, he didn't have a demon, or a Mark, or an angel. It was pure Dean Winchester that drove Cas away.

The lights flicker, before going out altogether. Outside, the wind whistles past the door, as Cas lights a few candles. He sets them around the room. Their light turns the room into something mysterious. Something sparking with potential. In the dim light, Cas' eyes gleam. He's gorgeous, otherworldly.

"You must know," Dean whispers. There's no way that Cas can't know how he feels. The lengths he would go to for him. "Cas, you have to know.

"I can't sleep without you. I can't...six months and I haven't slept more than four hours a night because I didn't know where you were. I didn't know if you were alive, dead, or what. I couldn't stop thinking about when you left...I should have run after you. I should have stopped you right there. I should have begged you to stay." His heart cracks as he lets go of one of his last secrets, one that he's held close to his chest for all these years. "I need you Cas. Always have."

"And that's the problem." Cas' face shutters as he steps away. "If I'm not useful, then you don't need me. If I can't help you--"

"Shut up." The words fall from his mouth before Dean can stop himself. This is it. This is what drove a wedge between him and Cas. For years, Cas felt like this and for years, Dean ignored it. Even when it led to Cas swallowing Purgatory, even when it led to Cas saying 'yes' to Lucifer, even when it led to Cas dying--Dean ignored it. That's his mistake and it's one that he can't take back. But it's one that he doesn't have to make again.

He moves to take Cas' face in his hands. Stubble prickles against his palms and Cas' breath drifts over his wrists. It's not close enough.

Thrilling at his own daring, Dean presses his forehead against Cas'. Here, in the flickering candlelight, anything seems possible. "Listen here, you stupid bastard." Cas breathes in shallow pants. He makes a low noise of protest, but never moves. Dean loves him so much that he thinks he might crack from the pressure of it.

_ _"__I don't...It's never been about that for me. And I'm sorry if I made you think that, but you've got to listen to me. I need you because you're you, you grumpy little son of a bitch. You drink too much coffee, and you like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and you only drink one brand of beer. Because you like guinea pigs and you have this weird thing with bees. Because you're stubborn and smart and--"

Dean has more--That Cas is one of the most caring people that he knows, that once you understand Cas' sense of humor, he's actually a funny little bastard. That Cas reads in foreign languages and translates for him. That Cas can ramble on about useless facts for hours until he lulls Dean to sleep. That Cas likes to watch documentaries and correct them on what they got wrong.

Dean could continue for hours, but he doesn't, because Cas lunges forward with a wild, desperate noise. Their lips crash together, hard enough to score the inside of their lips, but Dean doesn't care. Not when Cas is in his arms. Not when he's being knit back together, one touch at a time. At the first touch of Cas' tongue, Dean opens eagerly, willingly. He can't stop touching Cas--his spine, his arms, his hair.

"I'm so angry," Cas pants, pressing hot, hard, kisses to Dean's lips. "I'm so...you don't know, how much it hurt, how much--"

"I'm so sorry." Dean tries to kiss the hurt away, nips at Cas' lower lip, at his chin. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me, Cas, please don't...I can't, not without you, you don't know...I need you."

Those aren't the words that he means to say, but he can't say the three word that press a _forever_ on the tip of his tongue. Not when Cas' hands push up under his shirt to tease at his bare skin. Not when Cas' mouth is hot against the skin of his throat.

"Don't ever think that I would be fine if you left, because I'm not Cas, I'm not ok, I need you with me, I _need_ you..."

They make their way to the bed, two new-made creatures fumbling their way to life. Dean tugs at Cas' shirt until he pulls away to yank it over his head. Cas skims his hands down Dean's chest, raising goosebumps in his wake. Their pants slide off their hips, leaving them bare. Cold nips at their bodies and, trembling, they crawl underneath the covers.

Dean kisses at every bit of skin he can reach--Cas' jaw, the curve of his ear, the bob of his throat. He works his way down Cas' chest, tasting the salt of his skin. "I missed you," Dean whispers into the hollow of Cas' throat. It's safer here, where he can't see Cas' face. "I missed you so goddamn much, you don't...Every fucking day, I woke up looking for you, every fucking day knowing that it was my fault that you were gone."

"You let me go. You watched me walk out that door and you didn't even try to stop me-" Dean sucks a bruise into Cas' skin, worrying the skin with his teeth.

Cas' hand trails over Dean's side, over his hip to brush against the wiry hairs. "Never again," he warns, before taking Dean in hand. "Never again will you push me away, will you punish me for what I haven't done. Never again will you treat me like I am lesser than you."

Cas' hand works quickly over him, almost too rough, but it's Cas, it's what Dean's wanted for months, for years--

"I promise," Dean sobs. It's a swift, bright climb, almost painful, as he hovers on the knife's edge. "Oh god Cas, I'm gonna, I'm--"

"Spill," Cas orders, low and commanding, the wrath and mercy of heaven in his voice and, helpless to disobey, Dean does. A thin wail escapes his mouth as he shakes through his orgasm, clutching at Cas to bring him closer. He hides his sobs in Cas' skin, needing him. Loving him.

He pulls Cas closer, tangling their limbs together. Sleep tugs at the edges of his vision. "Please don't leave," he asks, pressing languid kisses to Cas' face. "Please Cas. Don't leave me."

_ _\---_ _

The morning comes, and Cas is still there.

He grins like the dawn, finger tracing down Dean's cheek.

"Hello Dean," he says, low and sleep-rough, and while it might not be forgiveness, it settles warm in his belly all the same.

_ _\---_ _

_ _ _ **epilogue** _ _ _

"I love you," Dean blurts.

It comes on a regular afternoon, over a late lunch. He'd been watching Cas wipe at a persistent spot of sauce at the corner of his mouth and just missing it, and the thought rose and burst: I love him so much.

Dean smiles, a little weak. He knows that Cas is still angry, that Cas still hurts. He knows that the fissures between them might not ever be fully healed. He has to live with the knowledge that Cas can walk away from him, that Cas can thrive without him. Cas still feels the cut of his words, even after Dean's apologized. They can never be what they were.

But maybe, just maybe, they can be better.

"I just thought that you should know."

Cas moves from the opposite end of the table, into his space. He straddles Dean's lap easily, holding Dean's chin steady as he licks into his mouth. Dean's thumb scrubs at the spot of sauce at the corner of his mouth, even as he opens to Cas.

"From the moment I saw your soul," Cas whispers, pressing his forehead against Dean's. "From the moment my grace touched yours. I have loved you." Cas kisses him again, hot and possessive. "I have never stopped. Not once."

Dean's heart breaks, clear, and clean, and beautiful. He doesn't deserve Cas. He never has, but somehow, he's managed to beat every odd. He holds Cas steady in his lap, strokes over his cheeks as he presses a reverent kiss to his mouth.

"I'm so lucky to have you," he says, dropping each word carefully into Cas' mouth. "You're it for me. There's never...there's no one else. Not for me. Not ever."

He kisses Cas, sweet and tender. "You're perfect," he murmurs, smiling brightly as Cas ducks his head down to kiss him once more.

_ _\---_ _

_ A star falls from the sky and into your hands. Then it seeps through your veins and swims inside your blood and becomes every part of you. And then you have to put it back into the sky. And it's the most painful thing you'll ever have to do and that you've ever done. But what's yours is yours. Whether it's up in the sky or here in your hands. And one day, it'll fall form the sky and hit you in the head real hard and that time, you won't have to put it back in the sky again.--C. Joybell C. _


End file.
